


I Crave Your Touch

by luvscharlie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fanfiction, M/M, Slash, Unrequited Love, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-08
Updated: 2010-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-12 13:03:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvscharlie/pseuds/luvscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam keeps his desires bottled up inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Crave Your Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Unrequited Love, Unrequited Wincest  
> Notes: Originally written for Prompt 3, "Maybe it's the way you touch me…" at fandom_fridays on Live Journal. This takes place after 4.1 when Dean has returned.

Maybe it's the way you touch me, the slight, gentle movements of your hand over my back when you think I'm sleeping that takes me from simple desire to full blown, desperate need for you. Your fingertips awaken what I try so hard to keep buried, but find more and more difficult to control. No matter how innocent the touch, I crave it. I think you touch me sometimes just to make sure I'm still there. Even you, my big brother, brave as you are, needs reassurance that the one thing you have left to hold on to hasn't simply vanished as you slept. I pretend to sleep when I feel your fingertips stroke feather-light across my skin because I don't want you to have to explain yourself to me; to tell me why you feel the need to touch me… at least that's what I tell myself.

I lie to myself often where you're concerned. "He's your brother, Sammy," I say. And then I smile because that's your name for me, only yours. You're the only one left with license to call me that. I tell myself that those touches mean so much more than just a way to seek comfort; that you feel the spark from the tips of your fingers that I'm so cognizant of upon my bare skin.

It's not just at night that I find myself in denial either. I'll do just about anything to feel your skin against mine. Just last week, I put my tape in the Impala cassette player, one I knew you hated, taunting you with the AC/DC tape that I knew you wanted to hear; holding it out the passenger side window as you pawed and wrestled with me to reclaim it. Little did you know it was the wrestling I craved; I could have cared less about what music we played as we traveled down what seemed an endless highway.

Of course, these days all the highways seem endless, and I oftentimes wonder what difference just the few of us out there fighting can possibly make.

So I focus on what might make a difference, if not to the world, at least to me. If that makes me a terrible, selfish person, then so be it. I never set out for martyrdom; I was pulled in.

And so, each day I make it a new challenge to see how many times I can rub against you in the car. I wonder if you've noticed the increase in the different ways I seek out to accomplish touching you. The bumps against you as you drive because I simply must have something in the back seat, and the many times I need to feel around back there because I just can't seem to find what I'm looking for… because I am looking for nothing but contact with your body. If you've noticed, I can't tell because you never comment. But then, that's you, isn't it? Always stoic, always in control, my constant protector.

And if you come to me tonight and place your hands upon my skin, perhaps I'll draw up the courage to reach for you, to roll your body beneath me, kiss you as I've wanted to kiss you for so very long, and for the first time be the one who offers comfort, rather than takes it…

But I won't. I know that as well as I know that you and I are all we'll ever be able to count on. Because if I did—if I gave into the temptation of touching you freely, telling you all--then you would know—know the impureness of my thoughts, my deepest of desires, and that you lie at the core of them all.

So tonight, when I feel your fingers ghosting over me, seeking purchase in my skin and comfort in my presence, I'll be still as a statue, breathing slow and deep as if in slumber, so you'll get what you need—that constant reassurance that I am here, I have not left you.

And me, well, I'll simply find new ways to brush against you during the waking hours and feel the hardness of your body against mine, and laugh when you call me a big, clumsy oaf for having bumped into your back for the third time in an hour as I follow wherever you lead. 'Cause no matter where you go, I'll always be behind you… following close at your heels to make sure that you're never so far ahead that I might lose sight of you. I lost you once, and those months when you were away were—well there is really no word horrible enough to describe the void that your absence left in my life.

And when I close my eyes at night, I'll have the warmth of your body, the feel of your skin and the tender touches that I crave from you… if only in my dreams.


End file.
